The Forgotten Heir
by Aurora Vampiris
Summary: ABANDONED. Post DH. In a dark cell in Azkaban, in an era when Harry Potter is hailed as the most powerful wizard in history, a baby is born. The problem is, it was born on the wrong side of Voldemort's downfall.
1. Prologue: The End

_**A/N: **__Whatever you recognise does not belong to me. It belongs to J.K Rowling; in case you haven't figured it out yet._

* * *

**_Prologue: The End _**

The Death Eaters dispersed after the meeting. Only a single entity now sat in the dark chamber, its inhuman face flicking in and out of the light emanating from the elaborate fireplace. The fire was turbulent, its flames quivering with the perverse waves of magic that swept over the room every now and then.

A glittering silver crown sat atop the head of the dark figure, glittering whenever the flames chose to cast their light upon it. Two eyes were visible below the silver crown, glittering with an unholy red light of their own, gazing impassively upon the flames, but drawing no light or comfort from them. Perverse waves of magic swept over him, pressing down upon his genitalia, until his robes were stretched to uncomfortable tightness. Sexual tension throbbed within him, aching to be released in a burst of sticky, white droplets of happiness and joy.

A woman drew up alongside him, undressing him slowly, each of her fingers trembling with an ill-concealed anticipation, for she was serving her lord. She had dreamt of this moment for years, and now, here the opportunity had unrobed itself, waiting to be caressed and touched.

The night passed in wild ecstasy, each moan echoing through the confines of the chamber, as the serpentine sculptures flicked in and out of view. An evil hissing echoed from the darkest corner of the chamber, the sound writhing within the already confined Silencing Charms that wreathed the chamber. Hiss and touch. Moan and writhe. Fervent wild bursts of human seed into an orifice, releasing their foamy ejaculation within a hollow canal, uniting at last with the female seed, begging to be fertilised.

Evil cloaked the chamber with its shadowy veil, but within that shadowy cloak, a seed had been planted. It was too late now, to retrieve it.

Hiss and touch.

* * *

She laughed in wild mirth as she saw with amusement the lady that had come to challenge her with such idiotic ferocity. She twirled her wand at the witch that had dared challenge her. They traded curses; she was merely testing the stupid, presumptuous witch. The battle was lost, but the war could still be saved. Only two remained of her side now - her, and the only hope their side had ever had. 

Suddenly, she felt it well up within her. It rose from the very bowels of her fertile body, rising like a volcano, a burst of untamed magic, as if another magical core was sprouting within her besides her own. A flood of bile arose within her throat, and the frugal meal she had that day, rose up until it constricted her oesophagus. And then it struck her in a flood of clear thought.

A seed had been planted within her womb.

She smiled. But the moment of clarity came at a woeful price – ignorance of the present, a present that would be hailed as the turning point for the Wizarding World. A curse soared beneath her face and hit her just over her beating heart. With a fleeting smile, her body collapsed, unconscious.

* * *

She awoke within the dreary pits of the same prison where she had spent fourteen years, awaiting the arrival of her Master. _Back to the finish line._ She looked at her left forearm. The Dark Mark was no more. Yet she did not lose hope. Her faith was tenacious - her master would return and she knew it. 

The darkness threatened to overtake her, but she shrugged it off. She had bathed, drowned and relished in that darkness for as long as she could remember. But surely, her memory stretched past those years, didn't it? A rattling hiss echoed across the narrow confines of the prison. The dementors had been reemployed at Azkaban. The rest of her stream of thought was drowned in a flood of torture and remorse.

She screamed to get the attention of the Aurors, but they did not hear her. They never fed her. They never even checked on her – the prisoner in the highest security ward of Azkaban. Her entire magical core went into overdrive, sustaining her. Yet it would not sustain her for long. The dementors were slowly draining it away from her. She was dying. Two lives were being sucked out of her, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

And then, seven months later, she died, just a day before her hugely publicised trial. Her death did disappoint a whole host of people that had been baying for her blood, but a wave of relief did sweep over the entire nation, bathing it in a glow of extreme euphoria. The last trace of Darkness had been swept away.

Oh, how wrong they all were.

* * *

Dawlish shivered as another wave of cold assaulted him. It was a miracle that he had retained his position as Auror, even after the regime change in the magical world. He might not like his new job, but at least, he was still an Auror. 

Alas, if only his station wasn't at Azkaban. Falling victim to the Imperius Curse of the Death Eaters was an all-too-common occurrence during the War. Yet, he – the erstwhile Head of Auror Department – had fallen victim to the same curse. He was ashamed of it. And so, he had come to Azkaban, taking over as deputy warden of the prison, now holding captured Death Eaters.

Not at all a privileged position. And now, Dawlish knew why. It was so blasted cold, it chilled your bones to the marrow. And the worst part of it was the dementors. Why they had been reappointed, Dawlish did not dare ask; but they were the bane of his existence at the prison. He just couldn't understand why the entire prison had only a single Auror Contingent in charge. He realised the enormity of the destruction that had taken place during the War, but he failed to grasp the firm belief of the new Minister – Shacklebolt, his erstwhile partner at the Auror Academy – in the fact that the Dark Lord was gone.

Okay, so Potter had killed the Dark Lord… again, but did that mean he was gone for sure this time around? Dawlish was not so sure. He shuddered as he thought of the terrible things they had made him do at the Ministry under the Imperius.

The door to his wretched little office burst open as an excitable, rosy-cheeked Auror rushed in, galumphing, his robes billowing in a non-existent breeze.

Dawlish looked up at him. It always annoyed him when they did not knock. He deserved some respect after all. He wrinkled his nose in distaste as the Auror slammed the door shut and stared at him wildly.

"What?" Dawlish barked.

"She's… dead." The Auror said succinctly.

"She?" asked Dawlish confused, screwing up his eyes in confusion. And then it struck him with the force of a sledgehammer. "Oh… her."

He tried to veil his tense excitement beneath a veneer of calmness, though he had to admit it was extremely transparent. His knuckles whitened upon the edge of his wooden desk, as he murmured, "Good. Is that all?"

The Auror gaped at him for a moment, his mouth moving soundlessly like that of a fish, and then clamped it shut. He leaned against the wall, took a deep breath and said, matching Dawlish's calm tone, "I understand your lack of sorrow at her passing. After all, that bitch did kill my infirm parents in the War."

Dawlish nodded tightly.

"But you know that this is going to receive a lot of publicity."

Dawlish shrugged. "She got what she deserved. Now, is that all?"

Dawlish made to turn back to the sheaf of parchment upon his wooden desk, but the auror's crisp voice startled him.

"No. That's bloody well not all."

Dawlish looked up again in surprise.

"I've sent a house elf to fetch the bundle."

"What bundle?" Dawlish asked. Now, he was thoroughly confused. His hand twitched towards the wand. If the War had taught him anything, it was not to trust one that babbled strange things. For all he knew, the Auror might be under the Imperius.

The Auror took another deep breath and murmured, "The dementors informed me of her passing, as they always do at a prisoner's death. However they had something strange to report."

Dawlish tensed.

"They reported that while one soul departed, another was created. One life for another."

"What do you mean?" Dawlish asked crisply.

"What I mean, is that she was pregnant all the time. The bitch gave birth to a baby," the Auror spat.

Dawlish felt as if his rib cage was about to crack with the sheer pressure of his heart's pounding.

"Fuck," he muttered.

"I told you we should have checked on her," the Auror moaned, "If only…"

Dawlish slammed the table. "What's done is done. Now, we have to search for a way out. We cannot reveal the existence of the child to the world. It would mean our jobs this time."

He sighed. Why did it always have to be him?

A house elf entered the office and deposited a bundle on the desk. In another second, it was gone.

The bundle expanded and collapsed rhythmically, in sync with the baby's breathing.

Dawlish came to a firm conclusion. "We have to cover it up. Have the dementors kiss it."

"Do you think they haven't tried already?" the Auror asked incredulously, "Since the baby was born under their influence, it seems to have developed some sort of powerful resistance against them. Besides, it's only a day old, Dawlish. It doesn't feel any despair."

Dawlish motioned to the Auror and said, "Then you kill him."

The Auror gazed at him haughtily. "Do you take me for a Death Eater? I can't kill a baby!"

Dawlish moved up to the little bundle and sighed. He was right. They couldn't kill it ruthlessly.

"Let's face it," Dawlish sighed, "We cannot kill it outright. We cannot bring anyone else into this for risk of exposure. We have to abandon him someplace… remote."

He looked at the Auror, who seemed to be in deep thought.

"We could abandon him… How about the Black Forest in Albania" the Auror asked fervently.

Dawlish looked at the Auror incredulously. "Are you mad? Albania? For all we know, You-Know-Who might still be hiding there. If he… if the boy… no… Albania is out of the question. The Forest is heavily populated by all sorts of creatures. The baby might survive."

The Auror shuddered. "There, there, Dawlish, be a good man and keep that tongue of yours in check. You-Know-Who's dead… dead", he said with finality.

He looked at the baby, screwing up his face in concentration.

"Although, now that I think of it, we could abandon him…"

Dawlish, who had been staring at the bundle, looked up at the Auror eagerly.

"…In India…" the Auror concluded thoughtfully.

"India?" Dawlish asked, his voice slipping back into the incredulous tone.

"Yes," the Auror said, and shifted guiltily, "When I was seeking a place of… refuge… during the war. India was one of the many places I visited. I came upon this vast desert called the Tar… or something. Completely deserted, not a soul in sight. The baby would be dead at the end of the day."

"The Tar?" Dawlish asked, scrutinising the Auror suspiciously for any sign of drunkenness, "Are you sure?"

"I'll apparate there, deposit the baby, and apparate back," the Auror said absently, "And yeah… I'm sure of the place."

Dawlish settled back down. He was knee-deep in shit anyway. "Fine. Take the baby, and deposit him there. You have thirty minutes. I'll give you a little bonus at the end of this month."

The Auror nodded smugly and gathered the bundle. And then, he disapparated.

Dawlish sighed. A man in his position had to take certain decisions… guilty decisions. The world was better off without her anyway. There was nothing he could do about it. He had starved her to death. It was all action and reaction, after all. After all the lives she had taken, this was a minor punishment.

But he had never predicted this hitch. Yet, he would trust Dickens with his life. If Dickens said the baby would be dead in a day, it would.

He felt a little guilty at the punishment inflicted on the baby for no fault of its own. Yet, if the woman was a bitch, what else could the child be but a monster? He wondered who had had the guts to screw her. He admired the man. He must have been an animal.

With a sigh of unease, he dipped the quill in the scarlet ink and continued to scribble away on the parchment.

For all the world knew, Azkaban's most notorious and hated prisoner was dead. End of story.

* * *

In any village in the less developed regions of India, the Sarpanch is the ultimate authority when it comes to… well, anything. The word of the Sarpanch is Law. 

Yet, today he was faced with a dilemma. True, his village was not the most reputable of settlements in this part of the desert, and true, the villagers did do business with the traffickers – be it drugs or humans – journeying in caravans down south to Mumbai, yet, they did have the reputation of being one of the richest villages in the Thar.

There had been a terrible storm that afternoon. The villagers usually took shelter amidst their thatched huts or, in the case of the camel herders, behind their camels. It was a blinding storm, or so the villagers told him. He considered himself too high to be touched by the fiercer aspects of nature. So he did not dare comment on the fury of the sandstorm that had rocked his own palatial dwelling. The air had been so full of sand, you couldn't see even a foot ahead. Worse than the mists of the Himalayas that he had heard tale of from the caravans.

However, one of his villagers had reported a curious event. After the fury of the Wind God had abated and the air was as clear and dry as it should be, the villagers had found a baby in the outskirts of their settlement. He had immediately rushed to the scene, and the expensive cotton _dhoti_ he wore was stained by dirt.

The baby in question was in the hands of his wife, who was scrutinising it from all angles. Yet, something about this baby was highly irregular. It was _white_! Not the creamy-white complexion of the mountain dwellers… but _white… pure milky white!_

His wife looked at him irritably. "The storm must have blown it to this place, I tell you", she told him.

"Don't be foolish, woman," he said, flapping his palm at her irritably, "The storm… You mean the Wind God carried him here?"

He laughed at the absurd notion, but soon noticed no one else was laughing. By the gods, they were fools, the whole lot of them! Idiots!

"_Huzoor_," said a villager tentatively, addressing the Sarpanch respectfully, "It must be true. No one in the village was pregnant, except for my Lajjo. And she is still pregnant. She hasn't given birth. It must have been blown here by the storm."

"True," muttered one of the village elders, "Who can decipher the will of the Gods?" He pointed at the azure blue sky.

The Sarpanch shook his head dejectedly. "One of the caravans might have abandoned it."

"_Huzoor,_" said the same villager again. The Sarpanch was furious now. Why does the idiot have to contradict everything he said? "There was not a caravan in sight before the storm. No caravan could have made it here in that storm."

The other villagers murmured in assent.

"The question is," said another of the village elders, "What do we do with it?"

"One of those whores at the city must have gotten herself impregnated by a _gora,_" the Sarpanch's wife spat, "This child must be _gora _– just look at its complexion!"

The Sarpanch considered this. His wife might be right, after all. Life could surprise you, at times. He chanced a glance at the circle of curious villagers gathered around him. They were all awaiting his decision.

He drew himself up to his full height, and declared, "We cannot abandon the child. Yet, we cannot raise it as our own. So I suggest a compromise. We raise it, keep it until it is five or six, and then sell it. He should fetch us a good price with the traders."

The villagers shifted uneasily. The Sarpanch was proud of his qualities; yet the quality he was most proud of, and possessed in abundance, was frankness. His villagers often deluded themselves into thinking they are honourable men, and are reluctant to reveal their ties with the traffickers. The Sarpanch smirked. Their village was the most notorious in the locality. It was more of an open secret. No point hiding what everyone knew.

The villagers would ultimately agree. All the Sarpanch had to do was to summon a council, and persuade the village elders. The rest would back his agreement like a flock of sheep.

Idiots. The whole lot of them.

* * *

"It was a bloody sandstorm out there. Could see a foot in front of me! Had to clear the dust out of the way with my wand," the Auror exclaimed when he entered Dawlish's office. 

"Then the baby has absolutely no chance of surviving. As long he's out of our hands, and as long as our memories are free of images of murder, I don't care," Dawlish muttered.

The Auror nodded and left the office, pale faced.

Dawlish sighed. The poor fool. He'd get over his damned conscience in the end.

And of course… the poor baby. Dead before it could breathe.

Pity.

With that thought, Dawlish turned back to his sheaf of parchment and resumed his scribbling.


	2. Hell

_**A/N: **__Whatever you recognise does not belong to me. It belongs to J.K Rowling; in case you haven't figured it out yet. The words in italics refer to character memories or thoughts._

* * *

**_Hell _**

_Perhaps, this shouldn't have happened. Perhaps the future generations will look upon me, and laugh derisively. Perhaps, I will be scorned and ridiculed. Perhaps, my name will never reach the annals of history. _

_I stand outside the manor, breathing in the clear air, as it blows my hair askew. And I wait… I wait for the event I have dreamed of ever since I was a child._

_Ah… the sweet smell of vengeance._

* * *

He shuddered against the cold cement wall of the room his Master often termed "The basement." Why this was so, he did not understand. For one thing, this was not the lowest of the rooms in the building. For another, it didn't look anything like the few basements he had been in. There were no cluttered odds and ends lying about. All that stood in the room was a fluffy bed, right in the centre of the large spacious room.

He shivered as a cold draft of air blew in through the ventilation slits at the top of the room. The ventilation slits were mostly blocked by reddish brown bricks, so as to stop the pigeons from making their nests in there. However, there was the tiniest of gaps between the bricks; hence, the cold draft of air.

Whip marks stood out, bright and red, against his white skin. He hadn't pleased the Master with his service. It had only taken a minute distraction, an infinitesimal second, for him to drop the jug of betel juice he was carrying, spewing the liquid all over the floor. And he had been whipped for it.

The worst part wasn't the pain. Nor was it the bruises. He healed fast. It was the blood. Red, thick, luscious blood, tempting him as it flowed down the cuts and bruises, creating a trail of narrow rivulets in perverse streams.

And he sobbed. It did not do him well to dredge up past memories. Not at all.

* * *

_The tribe had always warned him from approaching the sacred forest. He did not understand why they detested him. He just understood that it had something to do with his white skin. He wasn't one of them. He was white – like the firangis… the tourists who came to Rajasthan. And today, he was to be sold. Sold like the cows and horses. Sold like vermin. Sold. At the age of six._

_And so, halfway between Mumbai and Jodhpur, he had abandoned the caravan and fled into the sacred forest. And now, he was crying like a baby. He was hungry. He had thought the forest would feed him. That he would feed on the plump mangoes that grew in abundance on the trees. Yet, here, the vegetation was so dense, and hostile, that he couldn't climb a tree let alone walk properly amidst the thorny brambles and vines. The forest was hostile. It was a pulsing living thing, breathing him in, and digesting him, eating away at his body and pricking him with its thorns. _

_And then, a shadow flitted in and out of his range of vision. He immediately clamped down on his sobs, biting down upon his lower lip so hard, blood began to flow out in tiny trickles. The next second, there was a piercing pain on the base of his neck. The closest he had come to feeling that, was when the dog at the village had chomped down upon his leg. A pair of fangs piercing his throat. His blood chilled. He had heard of them – the yakshis, malevolent ghosts, depraved women, floating from tree to tree, and feeding on the blood of men. He tried to struggle, but a sharp blow to his head, made his world black out into oblivion._

* * *

He had woken up in the caravan the next day. And they whipped him. The tribe never had any sense of honour. They whipped him like they would a horse. He still had the marks across his back… they would fade with time. But they weren't about to fade just yet. And he had been bound in chains like an unruly horse, and starved all the way to Mumbai. And then, he was sold to a white man who managed a dodgy "pleasure institute" in Mumbai.

Then, at the age of seven, he had been too young to realise what "The Chinese Room" was for. Every room in the institute had a name, probably christened by the crazy white man – The Master – that ran the place. The Master was a strange man, stranger even than the ragged, rich men who came to this cursed place. He alternated between good and bad, generous and stingy, furious and calm faster than a chameleon could change its colours. Sometimes The Master behaved like a benevolent old mentor, and taught him English and all its nuances. The Master even let him sit through the dodgy martial arts classes he took back-door. He had asked the other boys in the place about the classes. They told him it was to maintain a decent face for the authorities. When the authorities looked at the paperwork, they'd think it was just another Martial Arts institute. It was only if they were on the inside that they knew the true purpose of "The Institute."

He had been amazed when they had brought him here. He marvelled at the shamelessness of the women sitting in the inner rooms in varying states of nakedness. And then, he'd met the Master. The Master told him, in that insane, wheezing tone, and in broken Hindi, that he would be whipped within an inch of his life, if he ever disobeyed any of the orders he was given. And the Master did keep that promise of his. That was how The Master ruled over his little kingdom, confined by the walls of The Institute – through fear, and constant whipping. Then he was drugged and taken to the Chinese room.

And all he remembered after that was the noise. The screams and moans, the pangs that he had experienced, and the wetness on his face.

And now, at the age of ten, he knew what it all meant. And it horrified him. He had been to the Chinese Room only three times so far. He supposed the Master reserved it for the special guests. Yet, he repressed a shudder every time he passed the Chinese Room. It was horror – sheer horror – witnessing the levels humanity could stoop to, if given the chance. The depravities of man were something he'd be likely to avoid in the future – that is, if there was a future for him outside The Institute.

However, the Master really did give Martial Arts classes. He had sat through several hours of it. Of all the boys in the Institute – there were only half a dozen or so working there anyway - he was the Master's favourite. He supposed it was because of the colour of his skin. _White_ skin. That was why he was reserved for only the most special guests. And perhaps that was why the Master felt a certain closeness to him – they both shared the same skin colour.

His English lessons were very good – at least, they were more productive than the Martial Arts classes, where he was only able to witness most of the action. The Master taught him, whenever he was… "in the mood"… so to speak. Which meant the classes were highly irregular. Yet, he had improved by leaps and bounds. He loved hanging out the Gateway in Mumbai, listening to the tourists gabble in English, and picking up on their pronunciation and diction. And frankly, he thought his English was very good – or at least, the accents were satisfyingly accurate. He described the different accents he'd picked up as "modes" – and as far as he knew, there were only three modes, in the English language – "British", "American" and "Indian".

For instance, if you were to pronounce college in Indian-mode, it would be pronounced as coll-AGE, with the stress on the second syllable. Yet the British and American modes stressed on the first syllable, like so – COLL-age.

In short, if he wasn't being whipped, or drugged and raped, or being taught English, or sitting through those Martial Arts lessons, or recovering from a beating, he would usually be at the Gateway, listening to the tourists and their behaviour, or skimming through the books the local hawker lent to him. He was a well known fixture at the Gateway, and was often asked to deliver love letters amongst various amorous college students that prowled the Gateway.

And yet, he was not as beaten or powerless, as he seemed.

* * *

Hadeus, or so he was called, though his name held no relevance to any Roman or Greek character, prowled through the narrow corridor. He paused for a moment, and yanked his pants upwards a little more. He fastened his belt tightly, yet could not erase the wet patch that had somehow stained his pants. He could, of course, use magic, if it were not for the fact that the muggles were everywhere.

Damn, he shouldn't have humped the bitch. He knew that the mistress wouldn't like it if she knew he was visiting muggle brothels. After all, the mistress had come here for a short vacation.

She was old-fashioned, though. There were few of her kind now, in Wizarding Circles. Pity. Of course, there were always those pureblood fanatics that rebelled against the government, and spontaneously attacked random locations in Europe and the outskirts of Ireland.

Not all the Death Eaters were eradicated after the fall of the Dark Lord. Harry Potter may have accomplished the impossible, but the European Ministries had not been able to completely remove the Death Eaters entrenched in Transylvania. And to date, the dark forest in Transylvania was a Death Eater stronghold. Voldemort, before his fall, had somehow managed to persuade the government of the only magical republic in the world to hand over power to him. And the Death Eaters fought tooth and nail to keep it.

However, the Death Eaters were more-or-less powerless, to carry the war beyond their own soil. Without Voldemort, they were nothing but a bunch of moderately well-trained wizards.

And his mistress, though she abhorred their methods, supported the Death Eaters' ideology. He knew she was a pureblood, dating back to the past twenty six generations. Yet, somehow, despite the fact that her husband turned out to be a convicted Death Eater, she had somehow managed to hold on to the family wealth, and rise amongst the ranks of Wizarding Society,

The fact, though, remained unchanged. She was a Death Eater sympathizer. Though, not many knew that.

And he was her bodyguard. And he was visiting a muggle brothel in India. His mistress would not be pleased.

Yet he had seen something extraordinary today. He knew his mistress would be intrigued by the news.

* * *

Marya Prewett, was distinctly related to the celebrated Weasley family. They were all blood traitors, the whole bunch of them. Blood traitors and filth, and yet, they had defeated the Dark Lord. She had never dreamt it would happen. The Dark Lord had been destroyed, annihilated by a teenager – Harry Potter – who, today, was a Senior Auror at the Ministry of Magic.

She never liked the Dark Lord. Too power hungry for her tastes. He never actually supported augmenting the pureblood race; he merely encouraged its spread amongst his followers so that they would sit him upon a pedestal of power and fear, above them all. And her husband had foolishly joined his ranks. And he had paid the price.

_Pity._

That revelation had almost cost her the entire family vault at Gringotts. Yet, she had somehow held onto it, claiming ignorance and playing the part of the oblivious, innocent housewife. Of course, a few well-placed bribes and threats did help. She now sat upon the silver armchair placed in her room in Jantar Mantar – an expensive upper class hotel in the magical part of India.

And she was waiting for Hadeus to arrive.

The door creaked open.

"I am sorry, Mistress, but…" Hadeus began.

"Spare me the filthy excuses, Hadeus. Were you at those filthy muggle brothels again?", she asked, her tone growing colder with each passing word.

Hadeus stared at her, wide-eyed. _Bloody hell, had she known all along?_

"But mistress, I saw something very interesting today…", he began uncertainly.

Marya looked at him as if he was a disgusting object. "Do you dare describe your exploits to me, Hadeus?" she asked, her voice cold and harsh.

"No! Mistress, I swear… I saw a magical orphan here…"

Marya waved her hand impatiently, as if brushing off his comment. "Of course, there are magical orphans here, Hadeus. We're in the magical part of India."

"But he looked European to me. Extremely handsome features. And when I approached him, he was apparently talking to a snake…"

Marya's eyes shone with blatant eagerness. She sat up. Hadeus tensed.

"What? A Parselmouth? And he's… Caucasian?" she asked, her voice undergoing a dramatic change – soft and calm, "Tell me more, Hadeus…"

* * *

He sat at the Gateway, still pondering the incident at the Institute. He had been whispering furiously at the little snake that had somehow crept into his room. He never liked them. He could understand them, but nevertheless, hated them.

Somehow, their slithering and quiet hisses reminded him of something that he'd rather keep buried amongst the ghosts of his past… the savage fangs gleaming in the moonlight, the smell of blood dripping from the fangs, each drop plopping against the group with a soft pop.

He tuned the thoughts out before they overwhelmed him. He shuddered and drew his legs up to his chest, squatting in true Indian fashion near the Gateway.

"_Go away,_" he had hissed at the snake, "_Go away. I don't like your kind, snake._"

The snake had looked like it was just about to retort, when the man appeared. It slithered out into the shadows.

The man had surprised him. That did not often happen to him. His senses were abnormally sharp. Yet the man's cold, clammy hands seemed to close upon his shoulder from nowhere, as he heard a raspy voice mutter, "What were you doing, boy?"

He had staggered away, mumbling something about work at the Institute. As soon as he was out of the man's range of vision, he ran. He sprinted through the slums in the city, until he came upon the salty scent of the sea.

That had been a close call.

He just hoped it wouldn't lead to anything unpleasant.

Knowing his luck, the result of his actions would probably be the opposite of what he wanted – unpleasant.

Just like the last time.

* * *

_He made his way back to the orphanage at around midnight. He tiptoed past the statue near the bazaar. It had been a month since he'd come to the orphanage. _

_Hunger gnawed at him from the insides. And it baffled him. He had eaten his fill that day at the Institute. Yet something prevented him from being satisfied. It gnawed at him until his entire stomach was a pulsing, rolling entity, craving for something he did not entirely understand._

_And tonight, the craving had become so intense, that he just couldn't go to sleep. Every step was painful now, every minute excruciatingly agonising._

_And then he heard a blood-curdling screech from an alley. It was a woman. He sprinted down the alleyway. If he'd had full possession of his senses he would never have done that. That had been foolish. Perhaps his hunger… his craving… had blinded him._

_He saw a woman moaning in pain, as two hulking men stood over her. _

_Rape._

_He let out a whimper, and tried to beat a hasty retreat._

_Too late._

_One of the men caught him by the neck and lifted him, displaying him to the other._

"_Ooh… look… our hero!" the man said in a mocking tone. His Hindi was slurred. He had been drinking._

_The other guffawed. "Come to save the damsel in distress, boy?" the man asked. _

"_Let me go!" he screamed._

"_As you say, oh mighty hero." And the man dropped him on the ground._

_His companion lowered his face and showed one side of the face to the boy._

"_Hit me," the man said, "let's see how much power you've got in those tiny fists boy."_

_He trembled against the wall. And then, impulsively, as if possessed by a rabid fury, he swung his fist._

_The man spat out blood, and slumped to the ground, moaning and clutching his jaw in pain._

_His companion was furious. The rapist pushed the other man aside, and rammed straight into him._

_The world sank into oblivion._

_Two hours later he awoke to find himself covered in blood and bruises. He couldn't move at all. Every bone and muscle in his body thrummed with pain. The men were gone. _

_And then, he saw the woman. She, too was covered in blood._

_Luscious, red, thick, syrupy blood._

_He drew close to the woman. She was still breathing, but it was very faint. The scent of blood was too strong._

_He sank his teeth into her neck, and sucked._

_And nearly five minutes later, he withdrew. Then, it struck him. The magnitude of what he'd done hit him with the force of a hammer blow._

_Fuck._

_The craving was gone. And then, realisation hit him in its, gory, bloody entirety._

_He was one of them, now. He was one of those blood-sucking fiends the villagers and tribals had warned him about – he was one of the yakshis._

_His blood chilled. He turned over to his side, and vomited._

_Fuck the whole bloody world._


End file.
